


What Is And What Never Should Be

by semnai



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M, Multiple character death of same character, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semnai/pseuds/semnai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A curse is upon Thorin, and he is forced to relive the same day over and over, each time ending with Bilbo's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on the Hobbit Kinkmeme, which you can read [here](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1583558). 
> 
> I'll try to write this as quickly as possible, so I can finish before school starts up again for me.
> 
> Some spoilers for the end of the Hobbit, obviously.

Smaug the fierce, the invincible, the impenetrable, was dying. Down he crashed into the heart of Lake-Town, determined to rain as much destruction as he could before he breathed his last. Fury, white burning rage exploded through his body for the man who was responsible for his soon-to-be death, and for the dwarves that had come back to his home, for it was _his_ , and drew him away from his treasure to discover and destroy the town from whence they had come and been helped by. He regretted this now more than anything, for it had brought his doom. And so, with his last dying breath, he focused his magicks, his soul, his pure hatred for the race of dwarves upon the one who had wrought his destruction in order to curse him evermore. And thus passed Smaug the dragon from the land of Middle Earth. 

________________

The sky burned red with the dying sun before black clouds blotted out the light. Death was approaching, and all who looked up to that sky knew it in their hearts. 

The Battle of the Five Armies had begun, dwarves and men and elves fighting together against goblins and wargs, who desired nothing more than to slaughter them all for revenge and gold. 

Tightening his grip upon his sword, Thorin raised his head, grimly surveying the seemingly never ending wave of enemies advancing from the hills in the distance. They were so numerous that from this range, they appeared like a grass upon a plain. Fear clenched at his heart, but he did not let it show upon his face. 

Looking across their own forces, Thorin was uncertain of their chances. His eyes fell upon the hobbit, who had been their burglar, but now stood along with the elves and Gandalf. Hurt and betrayal still ate him like a singeing wound, for Bilbo Baggins, of whom they had thought infallible and dependable, had deceived their Company and the line of Durin and had handed the beloved Arkenstone over to the men and elves. His face scrunched in anger at the memory of it and that dratted hobbit of whom he had disowned, but he tried to turn his thoughts back to the battle at hand. 

In a not too distant past, Mr. Baggins had far exceeded his expectations, saving their lives many times, risking his life for theirs to the point that they had all owed him a debt of gratitude that he was even now unsure if he could repay. The hobbit had looked fondly upon them all and Thorin had returned it, for he had greatly admired Bilbo. But now… he briefly closed his eyes, and all he could hear was the shrieking of the goblins drawing ever nearer. Every dwarf, man, and elf was silent in concentration. Thorin glanced again at Bilbo, whose face, even from this far of a distance, was clearly intent and hard-set, so very different than the hobbit they had first set out with. His gaze lingered there, and unexpectedly a wave of ill-omen swept across him, like fingers of icy death scraping across his soul, and Thorin flinched instinctively. He suddenly had an urge to run across the lines, away from the army of dwarves that stood behind him and against all reason, towards the elves, towards Gandalf, and towards Bilbo Baggins. 

But before he could act upon this impulse, horns blared from all around him. Orders on all sides were being given to pull taut bowstrings, unsheathe swords, and ready hearts. 

Thorin instead only adjusted his helm, and cried to his men to prepare for battle. The goblins and wargs were nearly upon them.

Their enemy crashed upon them like a wave on rocks, and chaos reigned. Thorin blocked, stabbed, swung, and kicked his way through what seemed like thousands of foul creatures, killing all who dared cross him. For the few moments of breath he had after he slew another warg or goblin, he would quickly glance around the battlefield and assess how it was proceeding, if things were in their favor or against it. For a while, on the two sides, death was simply everywhere, with no one gaining any ground or losing any ground. 

But like oil sliding off water, the battle began to slip away from them. Good dwarves were dying all around him, his kin being killed before his very eyes, and Thorin began to despair. He glanced over to the east, where the elves were fighting, as he pulled his sword out of a grotesque goblin who was twice his size. 

They were not fairing much better, but Gandalf as usual was worth 20 good men in battle, and goblins seemed to fear to approach him. 

Thorin swung his sword around and sliced through the neck of an approaching goblin while crouching behind his shield. Kicking the goblin to the ground, he glanced back to the elves in time to spy Bilbo, a child-like figure among the elves and goblins, ducking and stabbing wildly at the bellies and legs of those who tried to attack him. Even in the heat of battle and the anger he felt towards the hobbit, Thorin had to suppress a chuckle at the stouthearted hobbit as a fierce warrior, but he settled on a thin smile as he cut clean through an arm that was swinging a sword at him. 

He raised his shield to fend off another goblin’s mace that was aiming towards his head. Looking again to the general chaos, Thorin figured that another volley of arrows would be of much use, but only if they aimed to the densest mat of goblins and wargs to the northeast. Yelling to his dwarves around and behind him to ready their bows, he gave the order and they released the bowstrings. 

Thorin watched as the swarm of arrows flew through the air and across the battlefield, burying their tips into their foes, felling many. His heart sunk though when he saw how many rushed forward to take their place. 

Suddenly through the din and madness, a voice rang out, piercing the ugly sounds of battle. 

“The Eagles! The Eagles are coming!”

Thorin looked wildly around as the call was picked up and repeated by all those on their side of the conflict, and glancing up he saw the great Eagles approaching in the distance. 

He joined in with the cry, and raised his sword, grinning. Finally, maybe, this battle would turn in their favor and the death would cease. 

“Another volley!” he shouted gruffly, pointing his sword to that same dense pack of goblins. “Fire!”

Once again the arrows flew through the air, but perhaps because of the eagles approaching or some other unfavorable luck, the wind picked up at that moment driving the arrows more east and more south than intended. Thorin looked on in horror as they headed towards a patch of fighting between elves and goblins. 

As much as he hated the elves, they were technically on their side at the present, and if there was any hope of winning, they’d need any and all help they could afford. And these were his arrows heading straight for them. 

Thorin tried shouting but the shrieks of goblins and cries of men were too loud it seemed for anyone to pick up his voice through the turmoil. And so, Thorin Oakenshield was helpless as fifty arrows bared down upon their own side. He could only watch as the tips dug into the flesh of elves who were not looking up at that time, who had the misfortune to not suspect friendly fire. 

Once the eagles arrived, tearing through the battle with their talons and beaks like a rock through water, they finally won. 

Thorin, however, hung his head low as the guilt continued to weigh in his heart from the unlucky arrows. He slowly made his way over to that part of the battlefield, picking his way across corpses and groaning, dying goblins and men. He was convinced he had to witness how many of these needless deaths had occurred because of him.

He walked from body to body trying to see which arrows sticking out of bodies were of his people. He counted four elven bodies before he saw something that turned his blood to ice and stopped his heart. There, beside an elf, was the small body of Bilbo, an arrow sticking out of his neck and another out of his lower stomach. There was no question of the origin of his wounds, as the fletching on the arrows was unmistakable. Thorin, in a rush, knelt beside the hobbit, whose eyes were glassed over, but he was struggling for breath. Thorin’s hand fumbled, reaching out and grasping Bilbo’s and squeezing. Bilbo didn’t squeeze back.

Bilbo’s eyes managed to find Thorin’s face. “Thorin?” he rasped, each breath seeming to cause him immense pain. 

“You’ll be fine,” Thorin whispered. “You’ll be okay,” he lied. 

Bilbo just nodded, and his eyes slowly closed. 

Thorin felt frozen and broken. This hobbit, he had been so angry, he had felt so betrayed and now. Now. Thorin shuddered a breath, and emotion felt like it would burst from his chest. _Why?_ he asked himself. _Why did this hobbit have to die? It was random, the arrows, why was he here, why._ Thorin slammed his other fist into the ground and lowered his head in grief.

He swallowed, holding back the searing fire of tears and anguish burning his throat. Trying to calm himself and stop his shaking hands, he took a slow deep breath, and raised his head again to look at the cold, hard truth in front of him, that Bilbo Baggins, their distinguished burglar, was dead, but jumped back in shock.

Instead, he raised his head to a red sky, an endless swarm of goblins and wargs approaching, and he stood once again to greet it. Thorin’s mouth fell open in confusion and he nearly let go of his sword. He was at the beginning of the battle once again, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what just happened. And Bilbo? Thorin glanced over at the line of elves to the east and there Bilbo was, next to Gandalf, and as alive as ever. 

_I was imaging it, I was going over the battle in my head and my thoughts got away from me._ Thorin sighed in relief that all of what happened was a nightmare of sorts and adjusted his helm. When the battle cries began, Thorin joined in, rallying his men for the enemy was upon them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After like a month and some bribery, here's the the next chapter! Sorry for the wait guys.

Thorin defended himself from every blow and attack as if in a dream. Every opponent seemed familiar, and he could not shake an all consuming feeling of déjà vu. This was beyond déjà vu; everything that he was experiencing was what had just happened, except that wasn’t possible… did he have some sort of vision or foresight or—Thorin ducked several seconds ahead of a scimitar being swung at his head, to the surprise of the goblin. He jabbed his sword into its belly and it fell over, dead. 

Under normal circumstances, he would have smiled grimly and moved on to fight another. This time though, Thorin paused for a second, examining the fallen goblin. He remembered fighting this exact thing; he remembered what he had looked like, down to the nose ring and face paint and scimitar. As hideous as all goblins were, they were all unique and that he had seen this exact one in his dream… Thorin shook his head and snapped out of his reflections. It wasn’t possible. He must just be imaging things or some other rational explanation. Confusion and trepidation continued to swarm his thoughts, buzzing near the front of his mind.

_He had seen Bilbo die._

The image in his mind of arrows and blood and Bilbo… it was seared into his memory. For as much fury as he felt towards the hobbit, he had been their friend and companion for months and—and it had been his fault. 

Although he seemed to remember what was going to happen, he fought with less care as his mind was more preoccupied than it should have been. His confusion abated slightly when he received several cuts that he could not remember from his previous recollections. Perhaps it was nothing but an imagination of the battle before it happened, on which he was inserting his own current experiences to greater reflect what he was seeing. His memory wasn’t as good as it used to be. Thorin relaxed slightly, and pushed his bewilderment and the ghost of worry to the back of his mind. He took a deep breath, and continued to fight with increased focus. 

Heart racing after a particularly hideous fight with a large warg and the goblin who rode it, he paused for a second, and his stomach clenched as he realized what he needed to do. Thorin ordered a volley of arrows to their enemy in the northeast of the battle. It would do no harm. Well, not to their side at least. As had been seen before, the arrows slew many of their foes but their numbers still appeared to be endless. 

He had already resolved however that a second volley would not happen. No matter how much he felt it might help, he would not do it. He could not do it. Dream or not, what had happened… if it was in his power to stop it in any way, he would. And so when the cry went out across the battlefield about the Eagles’ appearance, he ignored what his fighting instincts told him, and just pressed forward in his earnest for the battle to be over with. 

His sword danced through body and hide of goblin and warg until none remained. His kin stayed at his side as they always had throughout his life, and he asked for nothing more. Victorious, he embraced Balin and Kili, who were closest to him, and wiped some of the grime off his face inefficiently with his dirty hands. He grinned; he had done it. No misdirected arrows, no unneeded deaths. Especially to a certain traitor hobbit. He ordered many of his surviving men around him to secure the entrances of Erebor once more, to secure his gold. On a whim, he started to make his way across the hill to where Bilbo should be to, as he told himself, to gloat. Thorin would never admit to himself it was for a more haunting reason.

He needed to make sure. 

So once again, he climbed over bodies, and the stench of death hung in the air. The coppery smell of blood of the fair mixed with the stench of the many goblin corpses. Crows and other carrion flew above him and around him to feast. 

As he drew nearer, he was surprised he had not spotted Bilbo yet. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gandalf looking curiously his way, but Thorin refused to acknowledge him. All the fury he had felt towards the wizard and his siding with the Elves was now returning, and he clenched his hands to help him focus at the task at hand. He knew he would never consort with him again. 

Thorin narrowed his eyes to peer through the haze; he still couldn’t see Bilbo anywhere, helping or standing around. He wasn’t around or near the elves and men. The injured were being found and attended to, and so people darted around him, giving him a wide breadth. He thought of trying to stop one to ask if they had seen Bilbo, but that plan was immediately choked when he saw him. 

Thorin’s thoughts shattered as he beheld, once again, Bilbo’s body crumpled on the ground. He stared in disbelief and horror for a second time. No arrow pierced his skin. But his body was broken all the same, brought down by what appeared to be a blow to the head. His well-crafted helm had not been enough to protect him, and the dent into the metal could be clearly seen, as well as the crimson blood that now covered Bilbo’s face like a veil.

Before he even realized what was happening, Thorin dropped to his knees. Again, it had happened _again_. How. It was different this time, but—Thorin dug his fingers into the rocky soil, letting out a strangled cry. He felt dizzy, and—he had tried. He dug down harder into the ground, marveling the pain of the small pebbles and rocks as they scraped his skin. He had tried to save him, but—and his mind swirled back into a dizzying array, a scrambled mess of thoughts, feelings, pain, frustration, and most of all confusion. What had happened before? What was happening now? Thorin looked up, forcing his eyes back upon Bilbo’s still body, finally resolving to try to wipe away some of the blood.

And once more, his eyes instead looked up to the red sky. His mouth fell open, and he staggered backwards. 

“Balin,” he cried out hoarsely. Balin, who only stood several feet away, glanced away from the incoming goblin force at the start of the battle, and his face clouded with concern when he saw how pale Thorin was.

Thorin took two quick strides to Balin and grabbed him by his shoulders, holding him in place.

“What is hap-happening?” he demanded agitatedly, his voice slightly shaking. “This battle—“ Thorin stuttered and stopped, realizing whatever he said would say make him out to be not well, or even unhinged. 

He let go of Balin and stepped back. Completely uncertain of what to say or how to say it, Thorin only knew he could not refrain from asking it. He had to know he was not alone in this madness.

“Have you noticed something…” Thorin slowly asked, expectant but nervous. “Something odd going on? Things repeating, this battle—“ He shook his head, as if trying to wake himself from this nightmare. 

“That we’ve gone through this battle twice before,” he added in a hushed voice, almost to himself. 

Balin’s eyes were wide, and he was regarding Thorin cautiously, like a spooked horse. 

He glanced nervously from Thorin’s face to the nearing foe, to the dwarves around them who were eying them both with apprehension. 

“Thorin, calm down,” he said evenly and softly as he could. He placed a hand on Thorin’s arm. Thorin jumped slightly, but continued to gaze back at Balin, fervently awaiting his reply. 

“Nothing… odd has happened, Thorin. Other than the sudden appearance of these foul goblins. Look, now they grow nearer, and they number many. But we will defeat them in battle all the same, as we have in the past.” He patted Thorin on the arm in a comforting manner, and pulled back. 

It was clear to Thorin then that Balin had no idea what he had been referring to. He was alone. 

“Yes, of course,” he said hollowly, and turned away disappointed and aggravated. He attempted to not deteriorate in front of everyone, using every ounce of his strength to not show that he felt as if he could explode from bewilderment and nearly fear. There must be some rational explanation for this, he kept telling himself, but his mind was far from convinced. 

He slightly inclined his head to Balin, ignoring the pounding of his heart. “Make sure all are ready for battle.”

Balin inclined his head in reply, and shouted to all who were gathered to prepare for war. He didn’t stop shooting fleeting looks back to Thorin, however, which set him increasingly on edge. 

_I’ll just experience this once again_ , he thought, shaking his head again, as he readied his sword. _Nothing to do but that_ , he told himself, as the enemy crashed against their line, and he fought the same goblins for the third time. This time, he concentrated on the fighting, letting those actions consume his mind as wholly as they could in the circumstances. It was all he could do to not let the panic that was starting to build up in his chest consume him like the fire from Smaug. It seemed to calm him slightly, until he heard Balin ordering volley of arrows. Balin had appeared to have nearly completely taken over command. His mind broke free of his concentration, and Thorin swung his head around worriedly. No Eagles in sight, so Thorin did not protest the order.

However, this suddenly gave him the presence to recall the manner of Bilbo’s last death. It was a rock blow, he was sure of it. He peered through the chaos of the battlefield and the haze of fighting to see many goblins on a ledge on the north edge of a hill, throwing various sizes of rocks to the troops below. Archers from that end of the battle were trying to pick them off but the angle to which they were situated allowed them adequate cover. However, they were not so well protected if viewed from their end. Thorin half smiled, and shouted over the din his orders to Balin. Balin curtly nodded, and relayed them to their own archers. Arrows flew over the battlefield a second time, and Thorin allowed himself to hope that they had done their job. 

Balin began to motion for a second volley, but Thorin stopped him immediately. He didn’t want to press anyone’s luck in the matter. Swallowing, he surveyed the battle, and focused over to where Bilbo should be, but was nowhere in sight. His gut clenched, but he fought on, his worry building up again. Finally, the Eagles descended upon the battle, and it was soon won after. 

Thorin gathered what was left of his wits, and once again made his way across the battlefield. His hands shook slightly and a sick feeling in his gut was overwhelming now that there was no fighting to distract him from his thoughts. Though he could not bear to think of the possibility, dread clouded his mind that he might find Bilbo… lifeless again. That he might wake up at the start of the battle once more. His brow furrowed, and there was a lump in his throat as he swallowed. He could not do that again. He wouldn’t. But it didn’t seem he had a choice in the matter. Thorin stopped. 

Why should he go see if Bilbo was well? What other misfortune could have befallen him? He had prevented both of his possible untimely deaths now in this battle. Why should he check on the clumsy hobbit? Why was did he feel so consumed in preventing his death? The first time, yes, because it had been his fault, but now? Thorin shook his head, muttering to himself. What was it about him?

Thorin growled, aggravated. He just had no idea of what was happening, but he could not ignore the demands of his mind to check on Bilbo, so he continued on. He gladly however continued to take no notice of the questioning eyes of a wizard and his allies.

He was getting better at disregarding the wanton death around him. He had stopped noticing it and the smell that it brought, but he could not ignore the feeling of ill-omen that he continued to carry with him. 

This time, Thorin quickly found Bilbo, dead again, several splashes of red across his body and a crude knife sticking out of his shoulder. For several seconds, Thorin just stared with a blank face as if he had found what he had been expecting and the unexpected all at once. And then, like a dam bursting, white-hot rage exploded from his chest, and Thorin let out a scream intermingled with anger, frustration, and sorrow. His face looked broken with grief, and he felt hollow. Tears ran down his cheeks freely, and his fists shook from being clenched so tightly. He did not fall to the ground, but instead kicked a helmet, with a goblin’s head still inside, which flew several yards.

He had tried, he had tried, and he had tried.

And he had failed once more.

There was a pressure on his chest that was nearly suffocating. Why would this hobbit inspire such grief in him, after all he had done to him? The anger he felt… he now couldn’t tell if it was towards the hobbit still or now only towards his current situation, or both. 

Like a moth drawn back to the flame, Thorin glanced back down at what used to be Bilbo and shuddered. He knew then, in his heart, that he would do anything and everything to save him. As long as he kept finding himself at the beginning of this damned battle, he resolved he would find a way to stop his death. A little question, though, still danced at the back of his mind of why this was so vital to him to achieve. He brushed it aside for now, lowering his head, and looking back up to the red sky of a new battle.


End file.
